by Amin Maalouf
‘If you have been trying to impress me, I have to admit that you have succeeded. Who, then, are you?’
‘I have told you my name, but it means nothing to you. I am Hassan Sabbah of Qom. I can boast of nothing save having managed, by the age of seventeen, to read everything there is on science and religion, philosophy, history and the stars.’
‘One can never read everything, there is so much new knowledge to acquire every day.’
‘Put me to the test.’
As a jest, Omar started to ask him some questions on Plato, Euclid, Porphyry, Ptolomy, on the medicine of Disocorides, Galen, Razi and Avicenna and then on interpretations of Quranic law. His companion’s responses were always precise, thorough and flawless. When dawn arose neither of them had slept or felt the speedy passage of time. Hassan felt a real joy. Omar was fascinated and had to admit:
‘I have never met a man who has learnt so many things. What do you plan to do with all this accumulation of knowledge?’
Hassan looked at him distrustingly, as if some secret part of his soul had been violated, but he recovered his composure and lowered his eyes.
‘I want to work my way close to Nizam al-Mulk. He may have some position for me.’
Omar was so beguiled by his companion that he was on the point of revealing to him that he himself was on his way to see the Grand Vizir. However, at the last moment, he changed his mind. The last trace of distrust had not yet disappeared.
Two days later, when they had joined a caravan of merchants, they rode side by side, quoting from memory in Persian and Arabic large sections of the most beautiful writings of the authors they admired. Sometimes an argument would start up, but then quickly die down. When Hassan spoke of certainties, raised his voice, proclaimed ‘empirical truths’ and enjoined his companion to admit them, Omar remained sceptical. He slowly weighed the merits of certain opinions but seldom settled for any of them, and willingly displayed his ignorance. He found himself repeating untiringly: ‘What do you want me to say? These things are veiled, and you and I are on the same side of the veil. When it falls, we will no longer be here.’
After a week en route, they arrived in Isfahan.
CHAPTER 12
Esfahan, nesf-é jahan! is what the Persians of today say. ‘Isfahan, half of the world!’ The expression came into use well after the age of Khayyam, but even in 1074 the city was exalted in words: ‘its stones are of galenite, its flies are bees, its grass is saffron’, ‘its air is so pure and healthy that its granaries do not change according to any calendar and flesh does not decompose’. It is true that the city lies at an altitude of five thousand feet, but Isfahan also had sixty caravansarays, two hundred bankers and money-changers and endless covered bazaars. Its workshops produced silk and cotton. Its carpets, cloths and padlocks were exported to the most distant countries. Its roses blossomed in a thousand varieties and its opulence was proverbial. This city, the most populous in the Persian world, attracted all those who were seeking power, fortune or knowledge.
I have said ‘this city’, but one can not really speak of a city. They still tell the story there of a young traveller from Rayy, who was in such a hurry to see the wonders of Isfahan that on the last day he galloped ahead of his caravan. After several hours he came to the bank of the Zayandé-Rud, ‘the life-giving river’, and followed it until he reached a wall of earth. The town seemed to him to be of a respectable size, but smaller than his own city of Rayy. When he reached the gate, he asked the guards.
‘This is the city of Jay,’ he was told.
He did not so much as go in but turned and followed his route toward the West. His mount was exhausted, but he did not spare the crop. Soon he found himself, panting, at the gates of another city, more imposing than the first, but scarcely larger than Rayy. He questioned an old passer-by.
‘This is Yahoudiyeh, the “Jews’ town”.’
‘Are there so many Jews in this country?’
‘There are some, but most of the inhabitants are Muslims, like you and I. The town is called Yahoudiyé because King Nebuchadnezzar is supposed to have settled here the Jews he deported from Jerusalem. Others claim that it was the Jewish spouse of a Persian Shah who, before the age of Islam, had members of her community brought here. God alone knows the truth!’
Our young traveller thus turned away, determined to follow his route even if his horse were to collapse beteen his legs, when the old man called to him:
‘Where are you trying to get to, my son?’
‘To Isfahan!’
The old man burst out laughing.
‘Has no one ever told you that Isfahan does not exist?’
‘What do you mean. Is it not the largest and most beautiful city of Persia? Was it not in the distant past the proud capital of Artaban, King of the Parthians? Have its wonders not been extolled in books?’
‘I do not know what the books say, but I was born here sixty years ago and only foreigners have ever spoken to me of the city of Isfahan. I have never seen it.’
This was hardly any exaggeration. The name Isfahan had for a long time not designated a city but an oasis where there were the two distant cities Jay and Yahoudiyeh, which were separated from each other by an hour’s journey. It was not until the sixteenth century that they, and the surrounding villages, formed a real city. In Khayyam’s day, it did not exist yet, but a wall had been built, three parasangs or twelve miles long, to protect the whole oasis.
Omar and Hassan arrived late in the evening. They found lodgings in Jay, in a caravansary near the Tirah Gate. There they stretched out and before they could exchange a single word they started to snore in unison.
The next day Khayyam went off to see the Grand Vizir. In the Square of the Money-changers, Andalusian, Greek and Chinese travellers and merchants amongst others were milling around the money-changers who, appropriately equipped with their statutory scales, were scratching a Kirman, Nishapur or Seville dinar, sniffing a Delhi tanka, feeling the weight of a Bukhara dirham or pulling a face at a recently devalued nomisma from Constantinople.
The gateway of the diwan, the seat of government and the official residence of Nizam al-Mulk, was not far off. The musicians of the nowba were stationed there to sound their trumpets three times a day in honour of the Grand Vizir. In spite of all this pomp, everyone, down to the most humble widow, was granted permission to venture into the diwan, the huge audience hall, in order to expose their tears and grievances to the strong man of the empire. It was only there that guards and chamberlains made a circle around Nizam, questioned the visitors and sent away the nuisances.
Omar stopped in the doorway. He examined the room, its bare walls and its three layers of carpet. He greeted those present with a hesitant gesture. They were a mixed but contemplative group who surrounded the Vizir, who was in conversation for the time being with a Turkish officer. Out of the corner of his eye, Nizam had spotted the newcomer; he smiled at him in a friendly manner and signalled to him to be seated. Five minutes later he came over to him, and kissed him on both cheeks and then on the forehead.
‘I have been waiting for you. I knew that you would be here on time. I have much to say to you.’
He then led him by the hand away from everyone into a small anti-chamber where they sat down side by side on an enormous leather cushion.
‘Some of what I am about to say will surprise you, but I hope that when all is said and done you will not regret having responded to my invitation.’
‘Could anyone ever regret having entered through Nizam al-Mulk’s gateway.’
‘That has happened,’ murmured the Vizir with a savage smile. ‘I have raised men up to the skies, and I have brought others low. Every day I dispense life and death. God will be the judge of my intentions. He is the source of all power. He granted the supreme authority to the Arab Caliph, who ceded it to the Turkish Sultan, who has delivered it into the hands of the Persian Vizir, your servant. Of others I demand that they respect this authority, but of you, khawajeh Omar, I
demand that you respect my dream. Yes, I dream of making this huge country of mine into the most powerful, prosperous, stable state, into the best policed state in the universe. I dream of an empire where every province and city will be administered by a just and God-fearing man who pays heed to the groans of his weakest subjects. I dream of a state where the wolf and the lamb will drink peacefully together, in complete peace, water from the same brook. However, it is not enough for me merely to dream, I am building. Go and walk about in the districts of Isfahan and you will see regiments of workers digging and building, and artisans going about their work. Hospices, mosques, caravansaries, citadels and seats of government are being built everywhere. Soon every important city will have its own large school which will carry my name, a ‘madrasa Nizamiya’. The one in Baghdad is already in operation. I drew up its plans with my own hands, I established its curriculum, I chose the best teachers for it and I have allotted a grant for every student. You see, this empire is one large building site. It is rising up, expanding and prospering. Heaven has allowed us to live in a blessed age.’
A light-haired servant came in and bowed. He was carrying two goblets of iced rose-syrup on an engraved silver tray. Omar took one. As he raised it his lips felt its icy steam and he decided to sip it slowly. Nizam finished his off in one gulp and continued:
‘Your presence here gladdens and honours me!’
Khayyam wanted to reply to this rush of amiability, but Nizam stopped him with a gesture.
‘Do not think that I am trying to flatter you. I am so powerful that I need only sing the praises of the Creator. However, you see, khawajeh Omar, as far-flung, as populated or as opulent as an empire may be, there is always a shortage of men. In appearance what a lot of creatures, how teeming the streets are, what dense crowds! But when I chance to look upon the deployment of my army, or a mosque at prayer time, a bazaar or even my diwan, I have to ask myself: if I were to demand some wisdom, knowledge, loyalty or integrity from these men, would I not, at the mention of each quality, see the throng thin out, then melt and disappear? I find myself alone, khawajeh Omar, desperately alone. My diwan is empty, as is my palace. This town and this empire are empty. I always feel that I have to clap with one hand behind my back. I am not content with sending for men like you to come from Samarkand, I myself am ready to go on foot to Samarkand to fetch them.’
Omar murmured a confused ‘God forbid!’, but the Vizir did not stop.
‘Those are my dreams and my worries. I could speak to you of them for days and nights, but I want to listen to you. I am impatient to know if this dream moves you in some way, if you are ready to take your rightful place at my side.’
‘Your projects are exhilarating and I am honoured by your faith in me.’
‘What do you require in order to work with me? Tell me frankly, the way I have spoken to you. You will obtain everything you desire. Do not be timorous, and do not let my moment of rash prodigality pass by.’
He laughed. Khayyam managed to cover his utter confusion with a weak smile.
‘My only desire is to be able to carry on my humble works sheltered from need. My greed goes no further than having something to drink, clothing on my back and shelter for the night.’
‘By way of shelter, I offer you one of Isfahan’s most beautiful houses. I myself resided there while this palace was being built. It will be yours, with its gardens, orchards, carpets, servants and maidservants. For your expenses, I am allotting you a pension of ten thousand royal dinars. As long as I am alive it will be paid to you at the beginning of every year. Is it sufficient?’
‘That is more than I need. I shall not know what to do with such a great sum.’
Khayyam was being sincere, but this irritated Nizam.
‘When you have bought all the books, had all the jars of wine filled and all your mistresses covered with jewels, you will distribute alms to the poor, finance the Mecca caravan and build a mosque in your name!’
Realizing that his detachment and the modesty of his demands had displeased his host, Omar made bold:
‘I have always wanted to construct an observatory with a large stone sextant, an astrolabe and various instruments. I would like to measure the exact length of the solar year.’
‘Granted! By next week funds will be allotted to you for that end. You will choose the site and your observatory will be erected within a few months. But, tell me, is there nothing else that would give you pleasure?’
‘By God, I want nothing more. Your generosity overwhelms me.’
‘Then perhaps I, in my turn, might formulate a demand for you?’
‘After what you have just granted me, I will be only too glad to be able to show you a small part of my immense gratitude.’
Nizam did not hesitate.
‘I know that you are discreet and little inclined to gossip. I know that you are wise, just, impartial and in a position to discern the truth from the false in everything. I know that you are trustworthy: I would like to charge you with the most delicate commission of all.’
Omar waited for the worst, and indeed it was the worst which was in store for him.
‘I name you sahib-khabar,’
‘Sahib-khabar, me! The head spy?’
‘Head of the Empire’s information. Do not respond in haste, it is not a question of spying on good people or infiltrating the homes of believers, but of looking after the peace for everyone. In a state, the least coercion or injustice must be brought to the attention of the sovereign and quelled in an exemplary fashion, whoever the guilty party may be. We can only learn if some qadi or provincial governor is exploiting his office to enrich himself at the expense of the weak by means of our spies, since the victims do not always dare to complain!’
‘These spies could still be bought off by the qadis, the governors or the emirs, or become their accomplices!’
‘Your role, the role of the sahib-khabar, is precisely to find incorruptible men for these assignments.’
‘If these incorruptible men exist, would it not be simpler to appoint them governors or qadis!’
It was a naïve observation, but to Nizam’s ears it sounded mocking. He became impatient and arose:
‘I have no wish to debate the issue. I have told you what I am offering you and what I expect of you. Go and think over my proposal. Weigh up the arguments on both sides calmly and return tomorrow with your response.’
CHAPTER 13
That day Khayyam was no longer capable of reflecting, weighing up or evaluating. After leaving the diwan, he disappeared into the narrowest alley of the bazaar, meandered past men and beasts and made his way under the stucco vaults between mounds of spices. At each step the alley became a little darker and the crowd seemed to be moving sluggishly and speaking in murmurs. Merchants and customers were masked actors and sleepwalking dancers. Omar groped his way along, now to the left, now to the right, afraid of falling down or fainting. Suddenly he came upon a small square which was flooded with light, a clearing in the jungle. The harsh sun beat down on him. He straightened up and breathed. What was happening to him? He was being offered a paradise which was shackled to a hell. How could he say yes, how could he say no. How could he face the Grand Vizir or leave town with any dignity? To his right, a tavern door was half open. He pushed it and went down a few steps strewn with sand and came out into a dimly lit room with a low ceiling. The floor was damp earth, the benches looked unsteady and the tables unwashed. He ordered a dry wine from Qom. It was brought to him in a chipped jar. He breathed it in for a long while with shut eyes.
The blessed time of my youth passes by,
I pour out the wine of my oblivion.
Bitter it is, and thus it pleases me.
For this bitterness is the zest of my life.
Suddenly, however, an idea occurred to him. He doubtless had had to come to this sordid den to find it; the idea had been waiting for him there, on that table, at the third mouthful of the fourth goblet. He settled his bill, left a generous baksh
eesh and resurfaced. Night had fallen, the square was already empty, with every alley of the bazaar closed off by a heavy portal and Omar had to make a detour to get back to his caravansary.
Hassan was already asleep, his face severe and pained, as Khayyam tiptoed into his room. Omar contemplated him for a long while. A thousand questions ran through his mind, but he brushed them aside without trying to find answers. His decision was taken and it was irrevocable.
There is a legend common in the books. It speaks of three friends, three Persians who marked, each in his own fashion, the beginnings of our millenium: Omar Khayym who observed the world, Nizam al-Mulk who governed it and Hassan Sabbah who terrorized it. They are said to have studied together at Nishapur, which cannot be correct since Nizam was thirty years older than Omar and Hassan carried on his studies at Rayy, and perhaps a little in his native town of Qom, but certainly not at Nishapur.
Is the truth to be found in the Samarkand Manuscript? The chronicle which runs along the margins asserts that the three men met for the first time in Isfahan, in the diwan of the Grand Vizir, on the initiative of Khayyam – acting as destiny’s blind apprentice.
Nizam had secluded himself in the palace’s small hall and was surrounded by papers. As soon as he saw Omar’s face in the doorway he understood that his response would be negative.
‘So, you are indifferent to my projects.’
Khayyam replied, contritely but firmly:
‘Your dreams are grandiose and I hope that they will be realized, but my contribution cannot be what you have proposed. When it comes to secrets and those who reveal them, I am on the side of the secrets. The first time an agent came to me to report a conversation, I would order him to be silent, state that it was neither my business nor his and I would ban him from my house. My curiosity about people and things is expressed in a different way.’
